Avil-Marduk had visited a strange place for the chief priest,—the
nethermost dungeon in the palace guard-house, by the royal quay. Here one
could hear the river brawling against the slimy walls. The black murk of
the sunken galleries leading to the cells had been charged with a damp
and sickening odour. The light from the slits against the ceiling was
just enough to suffer one, with eyes accustomed to darkness, to grope his
way. When the chief warden put his key in the ponderous wooden lock of a
door, the pivots creaked and a whiff of air drifted from within, but so
stifling that for an instant the priest recoiled.
“Who is here,” demanded he of the warden, “the Persian or Daniel? My
errand is to both.”
“The Persian, my lord. Your eyes may not see him, but he is crouched in
the farther corner. He is dangerous. Seven men had to hold when we put on
his fetters. Shall I stay by while you speak with him?”
“Wait within call, though I must talk alone.” Then, raising his voice, he
jeered boldly: “Ha! noble prince, do you find the raw millet and canal
water of this guard-house daintier than the fare on Cyrus’s tables? Be
comforted; twenty-seven years did Zedekiah, the Jewish king, languish in
this very cell. You are not likely to enjoy its hospitality so long.”
Out of the dark came an ominous growl.
“Take care, _dæva_; come within reach, and chained though I be, I can
kill you!”
“I will keep a safe distance from your Highness,” was Avil’s undisturbed
reply.
“And now, son of Hystaspes,” he continued, dropping the catlike purring
from his voice, “let us understand one another. You are utterly in our
power. By this time, at least, you will begin to confess it.”
He heard the chains begin to rattle from the corner.
“By this time, O Prince of Treachery, you begin to hear the roar of the
Persian lion. Do you confess it? Has the news that comes of late to
Babylon been sweet as Assyrian honey?”
Avil let a moment pass before he answered:—
“It is true that Cyrus is massing soldiers,” he admitted.
“It is true that Kutha has surrendered, and Sirusur the Tartan suffered a
defeat. Make your toads, these jailers, keep tighter mouths, if you would
have them leak no news to me.”
“If those turnkeys chatter, the stakes are ready to impale them,” cursed
Avil, under breath. Then, returning to the charge boldly: “Yes, it is
true, war has blazed forth. No profit to deny. But nothing decisive has
befallen. The king leads his host into the field in a few days. If Cyrus
be the first to attack—”
“I shall be put to death?”
“Unless you will serve our ends. Are you bent on destruction?”
“I am in Ahura’s hands. It is His, not yours, to give life or death.”
Avil incautiously advanced a few steps into the darkness.
“The ‘suicide-demon’ possesses you, Persian,” he was asserting, when with
a clatter of chains the prince bounded from his corner and dashed the
priest to the bricked floor.
“At last, adder!” snorted he, uplifting his manacled hands, and smiting
once and again.
“Rescue! Help! Murder!” bawled Avil, helpless on his back.
Well that the jailers ran swiftly, or Bel would have lacked a pontiff.
They plucked the prince from his victim by sheer force, and dragged Avil
away, covered with bruises. He stood, invoking upper and nether powers to
blast the Persian race forever. They put a shorter chain on the prisoner,
but he still challenged out of his gloom.
“Closer, friend! Closer! I dearly love a fair wrestle!”
But the priest turned away, quaking, and bade the others open the door
of the adjacent cell, for he desired speech with that second prisoner of
state, the Hebrew Daniel.
Darius was left in his dungeon; the bolts clanked into place, the
footsteps died away. At first he heard only the swash of the current
against the oozing bricks, and the shouts of bargemen forcing their
craft up-river. But the prince did not rage in his fetters, as a month
earlier, when first they cast him into this “death-in-life.” Laying his
ear against the partition, he could hear voices uplifted—Avil-Marduk
in angry colloquy with Daniel, who, contrary to Belshazzar’s pledge in
the proclamation, had not been kept in light captivity, but in heaviest
durance. Darius caught no word, but he guessed that the priest was ill
satisfied with his errand when Daniel’s door clashed to suddenly, and
Avil’s voice sounded in the gallery:—
“Now, as Bel is lord of Babylon, we will find straiter quarters yet for
this stiff-backed pair!” Then there were more steps, and again silence;
but presently a soft rattle at Darius’s own door, and the prince crept
toward it, as far as his chains suffered. Some one spoke at the ample
keyhole.
“Listen well, my prince, the other wardens are all around us.”
Existence in such a prison had taught Darius to catch every whisper.
“I hear you. You are Zerubbabel, the Jew. Where is Isaiah?”
“He is more suspected than I; and even my fidelity as turnkey is half
in doubt. Isaiah is looking to the locks on the tunnel. The escape must
be to-night or not at all. Shaphat is arranging to have horses waiting
beyond the gates.” Feet sounded once more in the gallery. The speaker
moved noiselessly away. Again silence and again the voice:—
“The chief priest swears that longer parley with you is useless. He urges
the king to cast your head into Cyrus’s camp. That would bar the last
door to peace, and spur on Babylon to resist to the uttermost.”
“And Daniel?”
“Avil would love to slay him with you, but dare not. News of his
execution, were it to leak out, would still raise the city in riot. But
we hope to save him with you.”
“Till when shall I wait to-night?” The words came eagerly.
“We cannot stir before the third ‘double-hour’[9] of the night. All is
ready.”
Shouts sounded down the gallery; Zerubbabel was gone, and Darius sat in
his gloom. How many times since he had been thrust within that cell had
he watched the bar of pale golden light, which drifted through that chink
against the ceiling, creep, silent as the tread of a dream, across the
floor! It was his only sun-dial. Pictured in its brightness he had seen
many a sight he had told himself he would never see more with mortal
eye,—his father, the hills of his native Iran, and Atossa, always Atossa,
fair as on the night of their meeting in the Hanging Gardens, when for
the last time he had looked into her dear eyes.
Interminable waiting! All the hard-learned lessons in patience, in which
Darius had schooled himself since existing in that dungeon, forgotten in
an hour! But, nevertheless, the day _did_ wane. The little bar of light
crawled snail-like across the wet bricks of the floor, and began to
climb the reeking wall. It mounted higher, higher, then began to fade,
and for once the Persian’s heart commanded “go quickly,” though the ray
had ofttimes been his dear friend. The chief warden entered with eight
men, examined his captive’s chains. Intact. He and his band with their
blinding torches were gone. Once more stillness, and only the monotonous
music of the great river fleeting seaward.
The last daylight had long vanished before Darius heard again—how
gladly!—something stirring in the gallery without. There were a shout and
a challenge when the guards were changing, the trample of heavy sandals,
silence again, then Zerubbabel’s voice close to the door.
“Quiet, my prince, my watch ends at midnight. We must be all haste.”
The bolt was withdrawing noiselessly; the door crept open; inside glided
a man with a flickering lamp that shed a red, uncertain light, leaving
half the cell veiled in its shadows. Darius started, but a warning
“Hist!” fixed him.
“Where is Isaiah?”
“In the next dungeon, releasing Daniel. The sentries have been drugged.
Now off with these chains.”
Babylonian fetters needed no key; the bronze circles, never locked,
were simply hammered together around wrist or ankle. Happy mortal was
he who, having felt them close upon him, could feel them also release.
The turnkey set down his lamp, drew forth a stout iron bar. One twist
of the lever freed the Persian’s good right arm, and like an unchained
lion Darius tore his other limbs free, almost with his empty hand. The
Persian’s heart gave a great bound as he sniffed a clear, sweet puff of
night air, while ranging the gallery. A second lamp and two more figures
came out of the gloom, but it was no place for stately greetings.
“The noble Prince Darius!” exclaimed Isaiah, softly, advancing from the
darkness. “Jehovah be praised!”
“And with you is my Lord Daniel?”
“Safe and free, Jehovah willing,” answered the older Jew, stepping
forward.
“Good, then,” replied the Persian. “Lead the way, for I am helpless here.
Next to Ahura, I owe all to you, Isaiah, and to your friends!”
“Fear nothing.” And Isaiah trod forward into the dark. “Few know the
secrets of this city and palace as do I. We must haste to the tunnel.”
They advanced in silence. The prison seemed empty of all life. Their
feet awoke loud echoes down shadow-veiled galleries, but nothing hostile
started forth to greet them. Presently they began ascending stairways,
and the foul stench of the dungeons grew yet fainter.
Then a door swung open before them, and a cold breath smote their faces.
A strange form thrust itself across their path.
“Who comes? Shaphat?” demanded Isaiah, never off his guard.
The newcomer stared about him in the dark.
“I am he; the guards are quieted. There is no danger. But where is my
Lord Daniel? Let me fall at his feet.”
And recognizing the older Jew, he cast himself then and there upon his
knees.
“O lord, gracious master, who was as a father to me and whom I have
requited after the manner of demons, speak to me one word. Declare that
you forgive, for the blackness of my sin is ever before me!”
Daniel beckoned him to rise.
“You are forgiven long ago; I have heard of the atonement made by saving
Ruth, and by rescuing Isaiah in the riot. You have sinned and have
repented. The Lord God requires nothing more.”
“Speed,” interrupted Isaiah, “we must be all haste.”
Then without another word he led the way over the threshold, past the
ponderous prison gate, and Darius rejoiced yet again when he found
himself beneath the glittering canopy of the stars. No moon. Under the
starlight he could see the vague white tracery of the great palace to
his left; to his right the outlines of the _ziggurats_ beyond the river,
trebly tall in the darkness, and before the temples the opalescent
twinkle of some wavelet of the mighty Euphrates, where a constellation
was mirrored. Isaiah hastened northward. They saw, far off, a form pacing
the embankment above the stream. The starlight touched something that
glittered—a soldier’s helmet. Darius heard the chanted call pealing over
the sleeping fortress:—
“The Ninib-star[10] rises. Midnight approaches. Marduk prosper Belshazzar
our lord!”
“They change sentries soon. Speed!” urged Isaiah. And he led faster along
the deserted quay. Soon before them rose a low, square building, and they
halted.
“The entrance to the tunnel beneath the river,” whispered Zerubbabel.
“Now, if at all, let Jehovah show His mercy. All other exits from the
palace fortress are too well watched.”
[Illustration: “The starlight touched something that glittered—a
soldier’s helmet.”]
Isaiah, who had kept his lamp pricked down to a bare flicker under
his mantle, boldly thrust in the door. They were in a small, bricked
guard-room. Directly before them was a second door, small, ponderous,
and heavily barred. Across the threshold lay a man in armour, but snoring
in the slumbers of the just.
“This is the passage to the great tunnel of which I have heard so much?”
asked Darius, softly. “Is not the exit guarded?”
Isaiah shook his head. “That, too, is provided for. The guard across the
river is more lax than here. But now we must push away this dolt and
force the door.”
Darius motioned with his hands, signifying that one twist of his fingers
around the sentinel’s neck would speed him past mortal outcry; but when
they rolled the rascal over, his guardian god favoured him. He grunted
once, folded his hands, and fell again to snoring. The drug had done its
work.
Isaiah, Shaphat, and Zerubbabel applied themselves to the massive door.
Its bolts and bars yielded one by one. They were about to put their
strength against it and thrust inward, when the turnkey stepped to one
side into a darkened corner. One step, but the mending or ending of
five human lives was hanging on the planting of that foot. He trod on
something soft, something living. In a twinkling there followed a howl, a
yelp, a prodigious barking.
“Fiends of Sheol blast the cur!” swore Zerubbabel, his iron bar
clattering from palsied fingers. “All is lost!”
Darius leaped upon the dog, caught him, strove to throttle; but the
mongrel brute writhed from his grip, bounded to the outer door, and
lifted up his muzzle, howling. Instantly a second dog answered, a third,
a fourth, and more, till they seemed encircled by dogs uncounted. Human
voices were beginning to swell the din.
“Alarm! To arms! Turn out the guard!” The distant sentries were passing
it one to the other.
The five stood and stared in one another’s faces. The hopes of the night
had been utterly dashed. What was left save death? But Darius, ever the
soldier and leader, tossed up his head, and demanded fiercely: “Why gape
and gibber here? Down the tunnel! We can cross before they reach the exit
by bridge or boat.”
“My lord,” answered Isaiah, sadly, “below this door, on the staircase, is
machinery to the sluice, whereby the tunnel can be flooded. We cannot bar
this entrance from within. To descend means drowning beneath the river.”
The drunken sentinel stirred in his slumber, but did not waken; yet the
others heard the nearing shouting. The sleepy soldiers were tumbling from
their barracks. The five heard the clangour of the great brass gong at
the palace gate. The Lord God knew how soon a “ten” of infantry would be
on the fugitives. Darius had possessed himself of the helpless watchman’s
sword.
“By Ahura Most High!” was his desperate oath, “it is better to mount
aloft with seven foes sped on before me, than to drown beneath the river.
They shall not take me unresisting!”
Feet approached rapidly. A new cry was rising, “The state captives, the
Persian and Daniel! Escaped! Pursue!”
Isaiah dashed to the door of the tunnel-house and bolted it. It would
take a few moments to force. Darius had turned to the others.
“I am a man of war, and know the look of death. If two men were to remain
in the narrow entrance to this stairway, they could defend it long. Five
must not perish where two suffice.” He was stripping the drunkard of helm
and shield. “I and one other will defend against pursuit, the rest flee!”
But Isaiah threw up his hands in dismay. “Folly, my prince. Your life is
worth a thousand such as mine. I am no weakling. Shaphat shall guide you
to safety. Leave the defence to Zerubbabel and to me!”
A thunderous beating on the door, and Igas-Ramman, the captain, was
clamouring, “Open! Open! In the king’s name!”
Isaiah reached to pluck the sword from Darius’s hands. “Haste!” he
exhorted, but another hand caught his.
“Folly again.” It was Daniel who cried it. “You are all young. Life is
sweet. God will give you many days and power to do great deeds. _I_ will
defend the entrance.”
“You?” The others were staring now in truth.
“Open! Open, or you die the death!” howled the soldiers without; and Igas
commanded fiercely: “Beat in the door! Hew it asunder!”
The stout portal shook on its pivots, battered by spear-butts. It could
not last long.
“This shall never be!” shouted Darius, while the deadly clamour
increased. “Who will abide with you? You are the least fit of us all.”
But at this instant Shaphat spoke forth boldly: “If my Lord Daniel
remain, he shall not remain alone, nor shall my betters be brought to
death. Of us all, I am of least worth. I have but one life to proffer, as
sacrifice for my sins, let it be offered now!”
“Dare you trust this man?” cried the prince, nigh angrily, while the door
leaped inward with every stroke—“a confessed perjurer?”
But Daniel answered, with his wonted calm majesty: “Yes, as the Lord God
liveth, I can trust him. He and I shall cover your retreat as long as
Jehovah grants us strength.”
But still the friendly rivalry went on, until Shaphat plucked away
Zerubbabel’s own sword, and set himself boldly across the doorway. Daniel
turned to the others imploring.
“Away! away!” he prayed; “do you not see delay only ruins each and all?”
And with a marvellous strength that white-haired man had wrung the weapon
from Darius’s grasp, and was putting on the helmet. As he stood in the
wan lamplight, his form loomed erect, powerful. He seemed to have cast
off the weight of twenty years. Woe to the first to meet him man to man!
“Bring a beam!” raged Igas to the soldiers. “Shatter the door!”
“Off!” urged the minister, tears now in his eyes. “Will you cast yourself
away, Isaiah, and leave Ruth desolate when I am taken? Will you leave the
Lord God’s purposes for you undone, my prince, by dying here in vain? I
am old. I have done His work. I live or die by His will. I do not fear.”
Crash! Before the battering beam the door was splintering.
“We will never leave you!” came from the young men; but Daniel answered
with a gesture of command. It was he who was prince, not Darius.
“Go! I command it!” cried he, almost arrogantly; “or your own blood and
God’s wrath are on you.”
The tone, the majesty of his presence, these made his words as law.
Darius’s heart cried out in revolt, but he bowed his head and obeyed.
They thrust open the inner entrance, and a dank stairway wound down into
the darkness. They kept Zerubbabel’s lamp. Isaiah left his for Daniel. No
instant for long partings. Isaiah strode over beside Shaphat—“You are a
true son of Judah,” said he simply. But Shaphat only bowed his head.
“The One God spare you, my father!” came from Darius’s trembling lips,
though the fear was not for self.
“And you, my son”—like words between Daniel and Isaiah, and that was all.
They saw the civil-minister standing, sword in hand, across the narrow
entrance, hoary, but then, if never before, terrible. And at his side,
steadfast and unflinching, was Shaphat, the one-time recreant.
A last crash—the beam, swung by twenty arms, beat the outer door inward.
It toppled on the bricks. Half a score of torches tossed together and
flickered on bared blades and lance-heads. A great yell of triumph,
followed by a howl of surprise. A last vision was branded on Darius’s
memory. He heard the clash of steel above him, the crash of conflict.
Then the stairway turned, cutting off sight and sound, and all about was
blackness.
[Illustration: BELSHAZZAR PURSUES IN VAIN]